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It’s 12:30 pm on Sunday, 18 May. I’m standing at the corner of Woodhouse Grove and Station Street in Box Hill, and the next bus heading towards Doncaster isn’t due for another 26 minutes.
I have a habit of missing buses. If I do arrive on time, invariably the bus has been early, come and gone. And because of major road construction in the area, it’s no longer possible to trust the timetables.
I wait.
It’s a chilly 12C, the first cold day this year.
May is the last month of Autumn, and the weather has been unseasonably warm, 18 to 24 throughout April and the first half of May. At 90 years of age I am grateful for the warmth, but I wonder if I should have enjoyed it so much, knowing we are victims of climate change.
I sit on the cold metal bench in the bus shelter, away from the wind. After about 10 minutes, a young woman in a hijab arrives. She stands near the bus stop. Being an immigrant myself, from Canada, I'm always curious about the origins of my fellow travellers. I wonder if this woman is from Iran because there are many Persians living in Manningham. We exchange a few words as I leave my retreat to catch a strip of sunlight that runs across the footpath.
Five minutes pass and we are joined by a teenage boy with ebony skin and curly black hair. Still uncertain in this new country, as if for protection he stands close to the telephone pole. I say hello, and he flicks his hand in acknowledgement.
I go back to the shelter to avoid the wind.
A few minutes before the bus is due to arrive, a woman with a child appears. She is Asian, probably Chinese. We greet each other and she comments on the cold. I congratulate her on her perfect timing as the bus pulls into the curb. We all come together to board.
As I enter, a young man with dusky skin stands and offers me his seat. I thank him and sit. Is from Sri Lanka or India? Or have his people been here for generations?
As I settle back, I survey the passengers. We are all shades and shapes – a microcosm of my city, my country, my world.
And we are one.
